


recovery

by candyharlot



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Bottom Ushijima Wakatoshi, Canon Compliant, Comfort, Established Relationship, Future Fic, Injury, Living Together, M/M, Making Love, Top Oikawa Tooru
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 19:48:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/candyharlot/pseuds/candyharlot
Summary: “Ushijima? What—” Oikawa gawks as he opens the door all the way. His boyfriend stares back at him, pale, out of breath and—"Shit," Oikawa exhales. "Are thosecrutches?"Ushijima nods. He holds out a paper grocery bag to Oikawa. Oikawa takes it and peers inside.“You said we needed more rice.”Or, Ushijima sprains his ankle and Oikawa tries to be "supportive."





	recovery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Miaou Jones (miaoujones)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miaoujones/gifts).



> To my recipient: I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it! It was an absolute pleasure to write my two favorites being so in love. Cheers ♥︎

Ushijima is late.

 _Really_ late.

It's not like they have a date, or anything particularly special planned for the evening. It’s a Tuesday. They have a hoity-toity charity brunch in the morning after practice, and Oikawa is supposed to make a speech in front of a crowd consisting of sponsors and fellow athletes. He'll wing it, like he always does.

People will ask for autographs. Ushijima will be politely asked to smile for the photographer by their team manager, and he’ll make a valiant effort. Then, once Ushijima has had enough and Oikawa’s jaw starts to ache from all of the smiling and small talk, they’ll leave. They’ll go home, relax, eat. They’ll kiss and bite their stresses away and fall asleep curled up in each other.

Then they’ll do it all over again.

But the thing is, Ushijima has come home at the same time every Tuesday and Thursday for as long as they've been living in this apartment. In May, it'll be four years. They’ve been “officially” dating for six, unofficially for eight.

Sometimes it’s hard for Oikawa to believe there was a time when he had nothing except awful things to say about Ushijima Wakatoshi. He had a heart full of hate and a tongue lined with acid. Now, he has twice as many good things—loving, affectionate things.

Not that he’d ever say most of them to Ushijima’s face. Oikawa has matured in a lot of ways since high school, but even now, he would sooner die than tell Ushijima everything about himself. Besides, he’s read in multiple articles that the element of surprise is an integral part of maintaining a long-term relationship.

That's what Oikawa tells himself. It's easier to admit than the truth—which is that Ushijima  _does_ know everything about him. He has for a long time.

And the scariest part is, he’s still enamored with everything Oikawa is and chooses to be.

They still fight every now and then. Most of it is bickering, fighting for the sake of fighting because sometimes they don’t know how to keep their frustration on the court, but every now and then it’s real, and it hurts. When that happens, and Oikawa wonders how in the hell they haven’t murdered each other by this point, he pulls out the stack of polaroids he keeps in an old _Asics_  shoe box under the bed. He spreads them out on the quilt. Connects the dots.

Then it all makes sense.

There’s snapshots of them from college parties, the 2020 Tokyo Olympics, their first season of professional volleyball. There’s photos of them with each other’s families, friends, even with the dog they fostered a few years ago during one of their off-seasons (they travel too much to adopt, but they help the local shelter when they can.)

Their journey hasn’t been an easy one. It’s been hard, really hard—which is just as well because Oikawa has never done “easy.” Every step forward has been hard won. Rewarding. Life with Ushijima has been rewarding.

Oikawa yawns. It’s almost 9 pm and he’s already exhausted. The dinner he made for them is still sitting on the cramped kitchen counter, beef and vegetable curry with fried rice. A half-empty bottle of red wine sits in the middle of the tiny kitchen table they bought on eBay a couple of months ago to replace the one that finally broke after Ushijima bent Oikawa over it one too many times.

He swirls the liquid around in the glass as he checks his messages for the third time in the last 10 minutes.

Oikawa hates waiting, but he hates worrying even more.

Thankfully, he doesn't have to for much longer. A loud  _thud_  rattles the thin walls and Oikawa jerks so hard a bit of wine spills onto the tablecloth. He’s tipsy, so it takes him a few seconds to realize the noise isn’t from their rowdy downstairs neighbors, at least not this time. It came from his own front door.

Then there's a soft, very polite knock.

Oikawa stumbles on the carpet in his haste to open the door.

“Ushijima? What—” Oikawa gawks as he opens the door all the way. His boyfriend stares back at him, pale, out of breath and—

"Shit," Oikawa exhales. "Are those _crutches_?"

Ushijima nods. He holds out a paper grocery bag to Oikawa. Oikawa takes it and peers inside.

“You said we needed more rice.”

Oikawa stifles a disbelieving laugh.  _Is this guy for real?_  he wonders as he moves aside so that Ushijima can—very carefully, and surprisingly gracefully for a man his size—squeeze himself through the doorway and past the coat rack without knocking anything over.

“Why didn't you just call me—y’know, like literally  _any other person_  would have done if they got hurt?” Oikawa asks, a little more sharply than he intends to, but god—he can't help it. His throat is tight, his face hot. How the hell did Ushijima make it home like this? “I could've gone to the store.”

"It—" Ushijima grimaces as he slowly lowers himself into one of the chairs at the kitchen table. He balances the crutches against the counter a short distance away, then drops his athletic bag onto the floor. He sags into the chair, extending his bad leg. "It's only a sprain. And it was on my way home."

Oikawa swallows the ugly mass of worry and tension that has been metastasizing inside him over the last two hours. It melts away in the pit of his stomach, much like the dusting of snow in Ushijima's hair.

He pulls up a chair and, after a moment, takes Ushijima's face in both hands. Then he kisses him firmly on the mouth. "I never thought I’d meet someone worse at taking care of themselves than me," he remarks, nipping Ushijima's bottom lip. "Good job, Ushiwaka-chan.”

Ushijima nods, his nose brushing Oikawa's cheek. It's cold, still damp from the outside. "Sorry.”

"Uh huh." Oikawa sniffs as he pulls back enough to meet Ushijima's eyes. "Are you hungry? I cooked."

One of Ushijima’s hands finds Oikawa’s thigh, right above the knee, and squeezes. "Yes, please."

\---

After finishing his second helping of curry, Ushijima leans back and closes his eyes. "Thank you," he murmurs.

"You're welcome." Oikawa grins smugly as he studies Ushijima. There are uncharacteristic dark circles forming under his eyes, and his jaw is held taut with the pain he's undoubtedly in but has so far said nothing about.

Oikawa glances at Ushijima's ankle. Whoever wrapped it did a decent enough job. They at least had enough sense to put it in an AirSplint, so at least it was stable while he was walking around. But it’s considerably swollen.

They’re almost thirty. Ushijima knows as well as Oikawa does that injuries at this age take longer to heal and nine times out of ten, people don’t play the same way they did before. They’re more careful.

"Tell me what happened."

"I landed wrong on a serve," Ushijima replies. "I didn't realize I was hurt until I tried to stand up. My ankle buckled immediately."

"Unsurprising.” They’re quiet for a long moment, then Oikawa grins mischievously. "So, what’s it like? Joining us mortals here on earth?"

Ushijima pins him with a glare—if one could call it that. The bear-like yawn that follows puts a damper on its severity, though, and the end result is more of a pout.

Oikawa is enraged by how much it suits him.

He rises from the table with a sigh, empty plates in hand. He places them in the sink before turning to face Ushijima again, and as he does, it occurs to him that the only injured person he has ever taken care of is… Well, himself.

But Ushijima has taken care of Oikawa many, many times over the years because of his unpredictable knee. Before he had reconstructive surgery to get it fixed, there was a time when Ushijima literally had to half-carry him up the stairs to his dorm room.

Oikawa has to help Ushijima, now, in any way he can—even if he doesn’t know how, he’ll figure it out. He leans back against the counter and crosses his arms. “What did the doctor say?”

"He said I can manage simple tasks with the crutches.” Ushijima frowns at Oikawa. “But that I will not be back on the court for at least two weeks. Perhaps a month.”

“Sounds about right," Oikawa mutters. “Let it heal, otherwise it'll just happen again and trust me—it'll be worse next time."

Ushijima sighs, long and deep. “I’m sorry that I will not be able to accompany you tomorrow.”

“I think I can handle a bit of publicity by myself. I’m made for the limelight, remember?”  Oikawa grins, flipping his bangs off his forehead for emphasis. “It’s _you_  I worry about in those situations. Journalists and talk show hosts never know what to say to you.”

Ushijima stifles another yawn with his fist. It really is adorable how hard he’s trying not to fall asleep at the dinner table. Such a gentleman.

Oikawa walks over to him and whisks a hand through his dark, close-cropped hair. Ushijima responds with a low hum, tilting his head back and opening his eyes just enough to reveal two gold slivers that flicker in the low light.

Oikawa shivers. “Let me help you out of your clothes,” he says. “And rewrap your bandage.”

“Mmmm.” Ushijima blinks slowly in acceptance as he leans his head into the palm of Oikawa’s hand. “I would like that.”

“Thought you might.”

\---

The next morning, Oikawa gets dressed not once, but twice. Halfway through his first attempt, Ushijima beckons him to the edge of the bed, drags him down by his tie, and slots their mouths together like he’s  _starved_  for it, like he didn’t fall asleep with his hand halfway down Oikawa’s briefs.

Oikawa lets him.

The second attempt goes slightly better. He even has time to cook them breakfast, although his blueberry pancakes don’t taste nearly as sweet as Ushijima’s, and his eggs aren’t as fluffy. Still, Ushijima eats it all, and Oikawa makes him promise to rest while he’s away, not to try to do the dishes.

\---

Ushijima does the dishes anyway.

When Oikawa comes home later that afternoon, it’s to a clean apartment. Ushijima is laying on the couch, his ankle propped up on a pillow and his perpetually furrowed brow buried in one of those cheesy suspense thrillers he likes so much. Oikawa sits with him for a bit, enjoying the view, then asks if he would like to take a bath.

Oikawa is so glad they went with the apartment with the oversized tub.

\---

It takes an entire week for Oikawa to realize the irritation he’s been feeling is because he hasn’t had sex in…well, about that long.

It’s not the affection that he craves. There’s been a frankly absurd amount of cuddling happening between him and Ushijima since he sprained his ankle, along with the natural intimacy that comes with helping a person with domestic, everyday tasks like taking a shower and getting dressed. They’ve kissed. They’ve kissed  _a lot._

But Oikawa wants something else. _More._  He wants to dig bruises into Ushijima’s thighs as he eats him out, rip the most broken of moans from his lungs. He wants to sink his teeth into the skin under Ushijima’s jaw, wants to feel Ushijima’s strong heartbeat pounding against his chest as he pushes Ushijima closer and closer to the brink. Wants to hold him as he comes in the space between their bodies.

In all the years they’ve been together, Oikawa has only topped Ushijima a handful of times. It’s not that he doesn’t enjoy it. He does, quite a lot. It’s that topping requires him to be in a very particular headspace, and it’s not often that he finds himself there.

But on the off chance that he does, Ushijima is always willing. More than willing—Ushijima never comes harder or louder than when Oikawa is inside of him.

It’s all Oikawa can think about for the entire day. During a practice match with another Tokyo pro team, which is supposed to be a fun, relaxing way to unwind before the real season starts, he goes for blood. His serves weed out the weak. His setter dumps are dirty. Filthy. He takes risks he would never take, pulls stunts he would never pull in a real game.

They win, but he doesn’t feel very victorious.

Oikawa is still so agitated even after the match that his teammates offer to buy him shots. He smiles and declines. He doesn’t even take a shower in the locker room before driving home. His mood can only be described as rough and rowdy, and there’s only one thing to do for it.

Oikawa sits in his car for a bit after he parks. Takes a deep, sobering breath.

There is probably something deeply wrong with him, to want to wreck his boyfriend when he’s—well. Already pretty wrecked. Sure, Ushijima isn’t using the crutches anymore—at least, not all the time—but he’s still wearing the brace. He’s still on the mend and will be for the foreseeable future.

The very last thing Oikawa wants to do is impede the healing process. So, he does the unselfish thing and keeps his desires to himself.

At least…he tries to.

They’re in the middle of watching one of Oikawa’s favorite movies when Ushijima presses pause. At first, Oikawa assumes he’s pausing because he needs to use the bathroom, or get more water, but no. He just…waits.

Oikawa turns to him, confused. “What’s up?”

“You’re restless.”

“Am not.” Oikawa shoves an entire handful of popcorn into his mouth.

Ushijima stares, then sniffs the air between them. Oikawa freezes mid-chew. “You reek of sweat.”

Oikawa tugs the blanket they’re sharing tighter around himself in a huff, tearing it away from Ushijima in the process. “Sit somewhere else, then.”

There’s a moment of silence, of Oikawa waiting for Ushijima to sigh, to move, something—but instead, Ushijima reaches up and tucks a piece of hair behind Oikawa’s ear, and Oikawa is so tense that he has to stop himself from slapping Ushijima’s hand away.

“I’ve been a burden,” Ushijima states quietly. “Thank you. For taking care of me.”

That’s all it takes. Oikawa snaps out of it—whatever “it” is that’s had him strung tighter than the bow of a violin—and rubs his eyes with the backs of his palms. “No, it’s not you,” he says, shaking his head. “It’s not your fault. I’m sorry.”

Ushijima hums. He’s close; his warm breath dances across the back of Oikawa’s neck. “I love you very much,” he says, and Oikawa suppresses a full-body shiver as Ushijima kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

Oikawa falls into him gracelessly, all tongue and desperation, but Ushijima is steady, firm. His thumb traces Oikawa’s jaw as he works him open, as he drinks in Oikawa’s moans.

Oikawa doesn’t realize he has a hand poised at Ushijima’s neck until they pause for breath. His pulse thunders under Oikawa’s fingers as Oikawa searches his eyes, made of molten gold. All he finds is the same fire that’s been burning under his own skin for days.

“I…” Oikawa rests his forehead against Ushijima’s. “I want to—” his throat works around the words, “I want to fuck you. Is that…something you—”

Ushijima lets out a shuddering breath, his fingers tightening in the front of Oikawa’s shirt. “Please.”

\---

Oikawa takes his time untangling the threads that hold Ushijima together. Some are easy to tug loose, while others are a little more complicated. They require precision. Care.

Some come loose under Oikawa’s fingers as he works Ushijima open, and Oikawa can’t help it—he stares. To him, Ushijima has never looked more beautiful than he does right now: eyes glassy and unfocused, chest heaving, stern mouth open ever so slightly as he breathes Oikawa’s name so softly that it’s almost impossible to hear over the city noise outside their window.

Oikawa grins.

There was a time, in the beginning of their sexual relationship, that seeing Ushijima like this—so open and vulnerable and willing to please—was too much for Oikawa. Too personal, too intense, too  _much_. Now, it makes his chest swell with pride.

How far they’ve come.

Careful of his bad ankle, Oikawa positions Ushijima so that his hips are aligned with the edge of the bed. With one hand splayed flat on his chest and the other under his knee, Oikawa slowlypushes into him, and Ushijima arches his back, giving a hoarse moan.

“Oh, fuck.” Oikawa bows forward, his bangs brushing Ushijima’s collarbone. “Ohhhh, my god.”

He’s so  _tight—_ tight and hot and everything Oikawa has been wanting,  _needing_. Ushijima clenches hard around him with each slow thrust of his hips, with each mark he sucks and bites into the muscles of Ushijima’s shoulder, of his chest, along the line of his neck. Oikawa doesn’t bother putting them in easily concealable spots because by the time Ushijima’s off bed rest, they’ll be gone.

Ushijima’s hand finds Oikawa’s face, and Oikawa glances up.

Ushijima is shuddering beneath him. A drop of sweat trickles down his temple and into his hair as he blinks up at Oikawa, slow and steady.

“I love seeing you— _ahhh, fuck_ —” Oikawa’s chin drops onto his chest as he refocuses his attention, anything to steer himself away from the edge. He’s too close, and he wants this to last as long as it can. He kisses Ushijima’s palm. “I love seeing you like this.”

Oikawa reaches down and brushes the hair out of Ushijima’s eyes, traces the sharp angle of his jaw with his fingertips. “Fuck, you’re being so good for me...” His thumb nudges against Ushijima’s bottom lip, which is currently caught between his teeth.

Oikawa grins. “I bet it feels good, having me inside of you like this,” he breathes, “doesn’t it?”

Ushijima bucks his hips at that. He growls as his hands drop to Oikawa’s ass, nails digging crescents into his skin as he forces him closer, closer, until Oikawa’s bottoms out and Ushijima’s legs are curled around his waist, holding him there, grinding his erection into Oikawa’s stomach.

“Tooru,” he says, broken and fucked out, and something inside of Oikawa short circuits.

His spine snaps into an arch—all he sees is red, and suddenly it’s everything he can do not to take hold of Ushijima’s wrists and pin them above his head and fuck him as hard as he can. “Careful,” he warns. “I’m—"

“Let go,” Ushijima says, and Oikawa does.

He hoists Ushijima’s leg—his good leg—onto his shoulder and pounds into him at a reckless, unrelenting pace, until Ushijima starts to tremble, and, very quickly, the rest of the threads holding him together come loose right in front of Oikawa’s sweat-blurred eyes.

The sensation of Ushijima clenching around him combined with the noises he makes as he comes—not once, but _twice—_ pushes Oikawa right over the edge. He’s gone, gone, gone, and the next thing he knows, he’s halfway on the bed, with Ushijima’s arms around his neck, dragging him closer and closer until he’s practically laying on top of him.

Then he hears Ushijima hiss in what he assumes is pain and realizes that maybe this isn’t the best aftercare approach. Oikawa rolls over onto his back beside him. “How’s the ankle?” he manages to say, even though his vocal chords aren’t quite ready to cooperate.

Ushijima squints at Oikawa out of the corner of his eye. “Fine, I think,” he says, and his voice is so hoarse it makes Oikawa smile into the pillow. “I don’t feel much pain at the moment.”

“That’s the idea.”

A few minutes pass—maybe hours, he isn’t sure—until Oikawa musters up enough energy to pull a blanket over them and turn off the light. Once he does, he pulls Ushijima to him, until his broad shoulders are snug against Oikawa’s chest.

“Thank you,” Oikawa murmurs into Ushijima’s hair, already on the edge of sleep. “For letting me take care of you.”

Ushijima hums, one of his hands coming up to cover Oikawa’s, which is hooked around his waist. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”


End file.
